The Vagabond and Other Poems from Punch by R. C. Lehmann
page 11 of 84 (13%)
page 11 of 84 (13%)
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But where I heard that music I cannot rightly tell; I only know I heard it, and that I know full well: I heard a little water, and, oh, the sky was blue, A little water singing as little waters do. FOR WILMA (AGED FIVE YEARS) Like winds that with the setting of the sun Draw to a quiet murmuring and cease, So is her little struggle fought and done; And the brief fever and the pain In a last sigh fade out and so release The lately-breathing dust they may not hurt again. Now all that Wilma was is made as naught: Stilled is the laughter that was erst our pleasure; The pretty air, the childish grace untaught, The innocent wiles, And all the sunny smiles, The cheek that flushed to greet some tiny treasure; The mouth demure, the tilted chin held high, The gleeful flashes of her glancing eye; Her shy bold look of wildness unconfined, And the gay impulse of her baby mind That none could tame, That sent her spinning round, A spirit of living flame |
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